


cross my heart (wait for it)

by surabayuh



Series: legacy (a garden you never get to see) [6]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Gen, Harley looking for answers, and also trying to find peace and closure, and realized regardless of whatever, he'd always had a tin can dad, or: Harley confronts his father and his fears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 19:30:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20971838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surabayuh/pseuds/surabayuh
Summary: “Dad’s dying; it’s stage four colon cancer. Doctor said he only had two months, tops.”Harley's breath hitched--chest constricting, inwhat, he didn't know.or:All in all, it took Harley Keener six steps to finally gain closure.





	cross my heart (wait for it)

**Author's Note:**

> IT HAS BEEN A WHILE??? sorry i was consumed by local fandom I haven't forgotten our beloved iron family, i swear. this one is for Harley, and it's about ... dads and their complicated, oftentimes traumatic relationships with us. 
> 
> i have chest pains from the emotions while i was writing this--i hope this moves you as much as the concept moved me. 
> 
> tell me whatchu think in the comments, luv!

_i. _

First was when Harley received the phonecall; he was washing the dishes when Hannah called.

Hannah—in the flesh and eternally five years too young—brought up his vibrating phone to his side, nudging his hip incessantly. “It’s been ringing like, five times.” She said, her tone informative.

Harley took his phone from his sister's hand, pausing a glance to her face, trying to retake all her features. He noticed that he did that a lot, _after_—staring at her, touching her. Trying to commit her presence to memory out of five years’ worth of fear, and grief, and longing. Even after years have passed since the Restoration, there was always this underlying terror that he'd watch her dissipate before his eyes_, again._

“Harley,” said Hannah, softly, seemingly realizing his wrong shift of focus. _“_Your phone.”

He blinked. “Oh.” He sounded sheepish, immediately turning to his phone. “Right. Thanks.”

Hannah's hand softly caressed his arms before she went back to Shihab and his assortment of Legos, and Harley stole another quick glance at her back before focusing on his phone.

The call had very recently ended, only for it to immediately start a new, vibrating itself and demanding to be answered. It was from an unknown number, which made Harley's forehead crinkle. The area code is of New Jersey, and he didn’t know _anyone _from Jersey, which made it even more bizarre.

Still, the caller had dialed him five times, at least, and perhaps whatever issue he brought might be important to listen up. Harley shrugged and pressed receive.

“Hello?”

“_Is this Harley Keener?”_

Dumbfounded by the caller's bluntness, Harley stammered his reply. “Uh, sorta—I mean yeah.”

The caller—a feminine voice, from what he could assess—made a rather profoundly relieved sigh. “_oh thank **God.**” _

Even more confused, Harley narrowed his eyes. “Who am I speaking with?” he asked, warily.

_“Oh! Right, I’m an idiot, forgive me.” _Exclaimed the caller, her shrill voice ringing Harley's eardrum. “_I’m Vanessa Keener. From New Jersey.” _She said, “_I’m, uh, I'm your half-sister.” _

It took Harley approximately five seconds to digest her words and what it meant.

“_Hello?” _the caller_—Vanessa, _she said, his _half-sister, _she said— ”_are you still there?_”

“Wha—yes. Yes.” Harley screwed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could already feel the beginning of an impending migraine. “I’m sorry, did you just say _half-sister?_”

There was a sigh on the other end, and when Vanessa spoke again her tone were more careful. “_We—we share the same father.” _Said Vanessa, softly, “_Eric Keener?” _

Harley froze—his whole body seized up as coldness run through his veins. Even after _years, _hearing that name still made him halt.

_“Where are you going, Dad?”_

_His dad gruffly grunted, lighting up his cigarette. Harley eyed him with curiosity as his dad didn't even pause from his movements to collect his things, instead seemingly going even faster. _

_When his dad didn’t answer, Harley tried again. “Dad?”_

_There were strings of bad words coming out of his father's mouth, and Harley was suddenly reminded of that other day on their garage-slash-makeshift-lab, when he had soldered a circuit wrong and gotten a slap as a result. Instinctively, he took a step back._

_But his dad only turned at him, giving him an indescribable look. “Gonna head to the city.” He said, a thin, impatient smile apparent on his face. “buy some scratch lotto and all that.” _

_Harley nodded, his movement timid. Dad did it a lot, now, buying scratches. He did it whenever mom was working, because mom would always yell at him for it whenever she found out—something about draining her hard-earned money for nothing but an illusion of hope._

_Whenever they argued about his dad's habits, Harley would find pieces of broken porcelains poorly swept to the corners of the dining room._

_The two of them stood off, starting into each other in an uncomfortable silence, unsure of what to do next._

_When Harley heard Hannah's mewls, he saw his father looking visibly relieved._

_“Go… shush your sister,” said Dad, waving a hand. “your mom prepared a milk on the fridge. Heat it up till it's… lukewarm or whatever.”_

_Harley wanted to point out that he was **four,** and **small, **he can’t even reach the stove yet, much less the freezer. But his dad had already walked away before Harley could say anything, moving in quick, hasty steps to their withering front door._

_“Will you bring the keys?” Harley raised his voice, pointing his hand to the door in indication._

_Dad shook his head. “Nah.” He said, one hand already grabbing the handle. “Lock 'em doors for me, will ya?” he told him._

_Harley nodded, mutely, and watched as his dad disappeared to the other side, closing the door behind him without looking back, once._

_That was the last time he saw him._

“Please never,” said Harley, seething, “Call this number again.”

When he cut the phone short, he felt more hollow than relieved.

* * *

_ii. _

The second phone he received two weeks later, at a meeting break with the Stark Industry investors.

He was munching his lunch in his office with Peter, exchanging dishes as they went because _boy _their spouses could cook well-seasoned food. The phone-call and Vanessa had all but occupied a small, cornered part of his mind, designed to be forgotten soon.

He was midway stealing Peter's Nigerian beef stew when his office phone rang. Grumbling, Harley shoved the meat into his mouth and picked up the phone, munching in annoyance as he spoke. “Taylor, I'm _eating. _It's _lunch break. _Tell those vultures—_” _

“_It’s not corporate-related, Mister Keener,” _assured his ever-patient, ever-exasperated secretary. “_it’s your sister. She said she can’t reach your phone.” _

Harley raised his eyebrow as he looked at Peter. Peter nudged his head at the phone, his mouth too full to deliver words. Still, living with him for years in college made Harley a master at deciphering Peterspeak. Sighing, Harley spoke to his secretary. “Alright, Taylor, patch her through.”

There was the telltale connecting line, going _toot-toot-toot_ as Harley waited, rather impatiently.

_“H—”_

“Yeah, Hannah, what is it?”

“_This… isn't Hannah.”_

Harley stopped cold, his mouth pausing mid-munches. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Peter narrowing his eyes, confusion dawning on him.

His arm was slightly trembling, halfway reaching the phone to immediately severe the connection, when the caller_—Vanessa—_yelped, “_Please,” _she begged, her voice wavering, “_please don’t cut the phone.”_

Harley gritted his teeth, gulping his food slowly before answering. “I told you to not call me again.”

“_Actually, you told me to not call your **cell** number again, and I figured since this isn't your cell phone, I’m not exactly violating your request.”_

Harley pushed away his lunch—Zaheer's Chicken Tikka Masala suddenly losing all appeal before his eyes—and pinched the bridge of his nose. “you know, kid, if you're only calling me to outsmart me, find someone else, okay? I'm busy—”

_“No, no!” _Vanessa yelped again, her shrill voice only amplified through the speaker, echoing through his office walls. “_I’m not, I swear. It’s just—” _she paused, her tone sheepish, “_it’s hard, okay?”_

“Then make it _easy._” Said Harley, not unkindly. “Go straight to the point, and from there, you elaborate.”

“_oh.” _Said Vanessa, sounding rather dumbfounded. “_okay.”_

There was an uncomfortable pause as Harley waited her to continue, rather anxiously. Her growing silence irked him further, and after five full seconds of quiet Harley opened his mouth impatiently, “Look, Kid—”

“_Dad’s dying.” _

Vanessa blurted, her words mashing against one another, forming a long, nearly intangible ramble as she continued. “_it’s stage four colon cancer. Doctor said he only had two months, tops.” _

Harley… well Harley was gaping, words dissipating out of his tongue as he processed her words.

_Dying._

“Why,” when Harley spoke again, his throat was dry and his voice sharp. “why are you telling me this?”

There was a jostle at Vanessa's side, and a static noise, and they all just added to Harley's steadily increasing heaviness in his chest. “_he, uh,” _Vanessa said, “_he wanted to see you.” _

Harley's breath hitched.

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

“Did he… did he ask you to call me?” Harley hoped with all his might that Vanessa didn’t detect the slight quiver in his voice.

Vanessa exhaled soundly, “_Kind of? See,” _She said, seemingly fumbling with her words. “_He mentioned about wanting to meet you, and your sister, for several times. But he kept chickening out whenever he wanted to start looking, and I got frustrated waiting for him to muster the courage so…” _she trailed off, letting the sentence explain itself.

Harley's lips were now a thin, white line of precariously-controlled emotions. When he opened his mouth, his voice sounded way too monotone, way too hollow. “I see,” he said, curtly. “Well, Vanessa, I'm very sorry that _your _father is very sick. But I am a _very _busy man, and I'm afraid I can’t find the time to visit him all the way to…” He paused, “_Jersey.”_

“_Oh, come on, you can find time between superhero-ing and being a Multi-billion-dollar company Director to Make-A-Wish visits **all **the time!” _

Harley pressed his lips impossibly thinner. “this is different.”

“_it’s your dad!”_

It took a while for Harley to rebut her, and when he did, his voice was cold. Hostile. Final. “That man stopped being my dad the very _second _he walked out of my life _years _ago.” He seethed. “He can’t waltz in and claim fatherhood only when it emotionally suits him.”

And just like the first call, he ended the conversation abruptly, way before this persistent half-sister of his could formulate an answer.

With all of the fiasco within his chaotic phone call, it took Harley a while to gather his bearings, and to re-register that Peter, his pseudo-brother Peter, was still standing across him, his beef stew all but forgotten.

“I'm sorry,” said Peter, immediately, when Harley's eyes landed on him. “It’s just that you went _straight _into it, and I don’t know what to do, like, should I just walk out? Wave at you awkwardly and mouth goodbye? It’s so—”

Harley shook his head. “It’s okay, Pete.” He said, bitterly, sounding like everything but okay. “Let’s just… finish our lunch, yeah?” he pleaded, softly, hoping that Peter would see the thinly-veiled desperation in his eyes to be distracted by something else, _anything _else.

_Dying._

_Stage four colon cancer._

_Two months, tops._

Peter watched him, warily, but he nodded, and the two of them inhaled the remaining of their meal before straightening their suits, preparing to head back to the war room.

Harley was still halfway distracted as he stood before his door, his movements unsure. “Harl,” said Peter, gently, when he saw Harley's hesitance. “Do you wanna stay here?” He offered.

Harley looked at Peter, warily. “These investors came from China,” said Harley, his voice small and tired, with no real determination lacing his words.

“And they'll understand.” Said Peter, placing a hand over Harley’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure they understand.” He added, reassurance strong within his voice that Harley has no chance but to believe it.

“Thanks, Pete.” Harley reached a hand and hugged him tight. Peter returned it with an equally ferocious force, before walking out, alone.

As Harley watched Peter leave, he felt a pang on his chest.

“Dying, huh?” He muttered to himself.

“_Mrs. Keener?”_

_Mom gracelessly stood up, her large baby bump making a hindrance of her movements. She pulled Harley with her, surprising him from his unintended slumber at the waiting room. The nurse looked at them with something akin to pity as she approached them. “How is my husband?” Asked Mom, warily, her voice echoing throughout the dingy hospital wall._

_“We just finished working on him.” Said the nurse, kindly, “It was close, but... he made it.” _

_There is a sigh of relief coming from mom’s mouth, as she clutched her chest. Harley looked up at her in curiosity. “Oh thank God,” she said, softly, “can we see him now?” _

_The nurse led them to Dad's room, where the walls are overly white and the smell too sterile. Harley felt dizzy looking around it._

_His dad was asleep, tubes in his mouth and wires in his body. **Alcohol poisoning,** he remembered mom saying to the phone when she called 911. _

_Mom sat Harley down at the spare sofa, letting him lay his head down her lap. He fell asleep listening to the steady beep-beep-beep of the machines around him._

_When he woke up, it’s to hushed arguments._

_“...so reckless?!”_

_“Shut the fuck up, Grace—”_

_“No, Eric, I won’t shut the fuck up! Harley **found** you, for God’s sake! You traumatized our fucking kid!”_

_“Well that’s his own fault for snooping into my shit when I explicitly told him not to—"_

_Are you fucking kidding me, Eric? He **saved **you. Your three-year old fucking saved you and that’s how you talk about him?”_

_“Maybe I wasn’t asking to be saved, ever think about that?!” _

_Harley squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to drown the voices around him._

* * *

_iii._

The third one wasn’t a call; it was a text message of an address in Newark, with an additional message of, _'in case you change your mind.’_

Harley googled it and found a hospital.

“FRIDAY,” Harley called, his voice weary. “can you please search for Vanessa Keener, from Newark, New Jersey?”

**“Will do, Boss,” **said FRIDAY, before falling into a pregnant pause. Harley didn’t even need to wait long. **“I have seven Vanessa Keener from Newark, New Jersey, boss. Do you have any other information to narrow it down?”**

Gritting his lips, Harley forced the words to come out of his lips. “Eric Harrison Keener. He's her… _father.” _

The aftertaste of uttering _that _name was bitter on his tongue, but FRIDAY delivered. **“Alright, I found her. here are all the information about her, boss.”**

And then FRIDAY projected all of her results before Harley's eyes, relying on Facebook pages, Twitter and Instagram accounts, heck, even a Tumblr blog and ArchiveOfOurOwn user.

She was two years older than Hannah, despite being born later. Harley's heart involuntarily clenched at the unfairness of _that._

Shaking his head, Harley continued his research. She used to be a cheerleader in high school; she took performance arts in college. She likes to post her drawings-slash-writings in free time and get into petty fights related to comic books with strangers on the internet. She can speak Spanish and her mother is Caribbean. Her favorite superhero is apparently Iron Man, and later, _him, _and Harley didn’t know how to feel.

She had a younger brother named Mario, and when Harley saw her family pictures together his chest was suddenly constricted.

Because there _he _was, after _years _of disappearing; his father standing with a whole, full smile, hands embracing his wife on one side and his children in the other. There were no tell tales of hangover in his eyes, no lines from permanent scowl in his face. There was only a pair of bright eyes and genuine grin.

But above all, there was no traces of fear in his children's eyes upon his proximity.

“FRIDAY, store it for later.” Said Harley, his voice dry as his throat clogged up. He immediately diverted his attention back at his phone, trying to keep the tears at Bay.

“Babe,” it was Zaheer's voice, and Harley could hear gentle footsteps approaching him from behind. “you gonna glare at that screen any longer and you might burn it with your laser-eyes.”

“I’m not glaring at it.”

“really? Cause it looks like you haven’t blinked since I left to pray Isya', and that’s a full half-an-hour ago.” Zaheer retorted, “Even got to put Shihab to bed and everything.”

Harley finally looked up to find Zaheer sitting across him, his gentle eyes curious. Harley sighed, shoving his phone to his pocket.

Zaheer reached a hand, holding it gently. “you’re distraught,” He said, matter-of-factly, “do you want to tell me why?”

“S’nothing.” Harley mumbled, looking away.

“Babe,” He could hear Zaheer sighing. “we’re each other’s person, remember?” his thumb caressed Harley's hand absent-mindedly, “and I can’t be your person if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you.”

Harley could only exhale in frustration. “My father’s dying.” He said, voice carefully moderated. Zaheer gasped, but Harley continued anyway, now that the story was out. “A… friend called, a few days ago. She said Eric has stage four colon cancer and only got two months to live.” Harley shook his head, grasping Zaheer's hand tighter as he hollowly chuckled.

When Zaheer tightened his grip in return, Harley could feel the beginning of free-flowing tears prickling his lids. He shuddered. “You’re upset,” said Zaheer, softly.

“I’m not _supposed _to.” Harley sounded almost whining, his voice shaky. “I’m not supposed to feel _anything.”_

“Harley—"

“He was a fucking _trash, _Z.” He shook his head, blinking his eyes several times. “Through and through. He yelled at my mom when she didn’t give him cash to gamble. He once dragged me to a bar and told the bartender to give me his strongest vodka, and I was _three. _He never even—” Harley choked, clearing his throat, “he never even _held _Hannah.”

When Zaheer reached a hand to tilt his chin up, Harley flinched. “My Love,” said Zaheer, softly. “caring for someone has never been simple, nor has it ever been clear-cut.” He tried again, and this time Harley melted to his touch, looking up to his partner warily. “Our hearts often picks who they care as they please, whether these people deserve it or not. All we can do is to identify and navigate through it.”

Harley chuckled, a small smile blooming on his face as he finally let some tears fall. “I hate it when you do that,” He said, shaking their head.

“Do what?”

“Spits out random poetic existential revelation.”

Zaheer giggled, and he inched closer to Harley, gazing him tenderly. “that’s the dead Arab playwrights in my bloodline taking over.”

“Well I suppose I should deliver my thanks to your ancestors.” Harley bantered back, his voice small but more assured.

“They would sincerely appreciate it, yes.”

Comfortable silence fell between them, as Harley grew quiet and Zaheer patiently waited him to continue. “You know, D—Eric,” Said Harley, after a while. “He said he wants to see me. Me and Hannah. Before he—” Harley shrugged, wordlessly.

Zaheer hummed. “And how do you both feel about it?” He asked.

Fiddling with their tangled fingers, Harley shrugged, once more. “I don’t… know.” He admitted, “and Hannah doesn’t even _know.” _He added, quite miserably. “I haven’t told her yet. I—I don’t know how.”

There is a glimpse of compassion and sympathy in Zaheer's gaze as he eyed Harley intently. “Maybe we should start with that.” Said Zaheer, softly.

Harley nodded, mutely, mind still reeling about the revelation of him _caring _about a man who never even _once _showed that he reciprocated the feeling.

_“Dad, look!” _

_Harley tattered proudly to the living room, hands greased with oil and soot. In his small palm was an ominously-shaped robot in the size of a tennis ball, and a small makeshift remote control._

_All his dad did was grunt a “what?” as a response, as he remained immobile in his worn recliner seat._

_All giddy and nervous, Harley set down the robot to the ground. Then he pressed the button in his remote, anticipation bubbling up within him—_

_The robot's ball-shaped body rolled around in controlled movement, moving in a clear track in-between the crack of the dusty porcelain floor. Harley yelped a surprised joy, before looking up at his dad._

_Eric Keener merely raised an eyebrow. _

_Impatient, Harley pressed another button, and the upper part of the robot opened, revealing a miniaturized gun barrel that fired cotton balls throughout the room. _

_Once again, Harley looked up, only to have Eric Keener sighed in frustration. “Well? It's a dirty toy. What else am I supposed to look at?” he demanded. _

_Huffing, Harley tomped his feet. “**I **made it!”_

_Now Dad seemed taken aback, his face morphing into a surprised look. “You… did?”_

_Harley nodded, his annoyance dissipating. “Yeah!” he said, giddily._

_Dad blinked, once; twice. Harley enthusiastically waited for his reply. Then; “We should sell it.” He said, “I know a guy who’s been looking for a unique remote-controlled toy for his kid. He’ll pay handsomely for that.”_

_The smile in Harley's face immediately disappeared. “No!” He yelled, scooping the boy over to his embrace hastily. “Ballsy is mine!”_

_His dad eyed him sharply, grumbling, “It’s a toy, Kid.”_

_“It’s my friend!”_

_“God, you're **three!**” said Dad, his voice borderline yelling. “You’ll meet new friends, heck, you can **make **a new one!” he finally stood up from his seat, only to yank Ballsy off Harley's small hands. _

_“Ballsy!” Harley wailed, but his dad was indifferent, already phoning of his aforementioned colleague to make a deal about the toy he didn’t even own._

_In the end, Ballsy was given to a hopeful-looking man with a kind smile, oblivious to the situation surrounding the simple piece. _

_Harley eyed his dad tearfully as the man started counting the dollars in his hands. He sniffled, and his dad looked away from his freshly-earned money, down at his direction._

_“You like making one of those, right?” he said, giving Harley a cold smile, “Go make some more, Kid. We can fucking get rich out of your tinkering.”_

_Harley didn’t touch any engineering tools until a full two years later._

Zaheer's hands snaked around him, pulling him close. “Whatever you want to do, whatever comes next,” he said, soothingly, “I’m with you in every step of the way.”

Harley closed his eyes, letting the tears finally fall.

* * *

_iv. _

The fourth one was a Facebook post from Vanessa's account.

It arrived just while Harley and Hannah were sitting across one another in a Café within her campus vicinity for lunch. It was a full three days after his whole conversation with Zaheer when he finally made up his mind to tell her.

Coincidentally, it was also bring-your-kid-to-work day, and now In between the Keener siblings wedged an oblivious Shihab, playing with his custom-built Rubik cube.

Hannah looked at her nephew, eyes unreadable. “Huh.” She said, “Dying?”

Harley gulped, fiddling with his the edges of his suit. '”Yeah.” He affirmed, lamely.

“And he wants to… meet us.”

“Yep.”

There was a pregnant pause between them, as Hannah tapped her fingers into the table, thinking. And then, “I don’t care.”

Blinking in surprise, Harley was taken aback. “What?” He said, confused.

“I mean,” Hannah shrugged, “that man is practically just a sperm donor for my existence. For all I care about, Tony is much more of a dad than this guy ever was to me.” She said, her voice delicately balanced and controlled.

Harley inched aside, mindful of the son in his lap. “Han—"

“I don’t even know his _face_, or his voice_.” _Hannah had almost whined when she spoke next. “You can line him up with a bunch of man and I wouldn’t be able to pick him apart.” She narrowed her eyes, “He’s a _stranger_, Harley, and I want him to remain that way.”

Harley was gaping, mouth opening and closing like a koi fish out of his pond. “I—” he stammered, mind reeling.

All this time thinking of his own pain caused by his father, Harley almost missed on considering Hannah's possible trauma and resentment.

“Daddy and Auntie Nay mad?”

Shihab's innocent query snapped both of them out of their intense conversation, reminding both Keeners of the little kid in-between them. “Daddy and auntie Nay fighting?” he added, when none of the adults answered. His tone conveyed worry and confusion at the tension around him.

“No, no,” said Harley, immediately, fingers reaching Shihab's cheeks to trace it gently. “We’re just… trying to figure something out.” He assured the little boy.

“it’s okay, kiddo,” added Hannah, softly.

“Oh, okay,” said the boy, quietly.

Both adults gazed to the boy as he once more was immersed in his own reality, playing his toys without a care to the world.

“Have you ever looked at Shihab, and wondered?” Asked Hannah, absent-mindedly. “Wondered how could he?”

Harley swallowed, his throat thick. “everyday,” he said, quietly.

“And did you get an answer?”

There was a long pause before Harley finally answered. “No,” he said, softly. “Never.”

“Then maybe—”

**“Boss?” **

“Wait,” Harley waved a hand at Hannah, halting her speech. “FRIDAY, I’m in the middle of a conversation here.”

**“Apologies for the interruption, Boss, but there's a recent development regarding Vanessa Keener and Eric Keener. Would you like to see it?”**

Harley blinked. “Okay. What kind of development?”

**“Mr. Keener's chemotherapy has been deemed a failure. His cancer has spread to about 75% of his system.” **Said FRIDAY, softly. **“according to Ms. Keener’s facebook post, the doctors have alerted her family to prepare for the worst.” **

Words were lost on Harley. He was gaping, his chest slowly filling with dread.

“Harley,” he could hear Hannah, but her voice was muffled. Distorted. Distant. “Harley, you okay?” she said, her voice hazy. “You look pale.”

“He’s _dying_, Hannah.” Said Harley, his voice thick and emotional.

He could feel the world blurring around him, as his emotions took over and he was reminded of a familiar, painful feeling—

_Harley was reeling._

_“She was supposed to be put on suicide watch!” he raged at the hospital staffs, who cowered under his rage._

_“Mr. Keener, we're very sorry,” said the nurse, tearing up. “we did, we really did monitor her, sir. But she figured out our blank spots and guard rotations systems and—”_

_Harley was seething. He wanted to throw something. Punch someone. Yell. Cry._

_“that’s my mom,” he said, pointing at the room right beside them; the asylum's morgue, where Harley couldn’t find it in him to enter. “that’s my mom, I trusted you with my mom and now she’s dead—” _

_He hiccupped, emotions overcoming his ability to speak, and before the nurse he crumbled, his chest suffocating him with grief._

_“Mr. Keener, we're extremely sorry—”_

_But didn’t listen. He was sobbing, heavy, stuttered inhales breaking and entering his system. His chest grew heavier and heavier and heavier as he chanted, “my mom, my mom, my mom…”_

“Yeah, Harley, I get that from the get-go—”

“No, you _don't!” _

_“Pepper! Pepper, you're not gonna believe this. It’s Hannah—she appeared out of things air in my old house in Tennessee! I’m on my way picking her up—”_

_There was a quiet voice, and then a restrained sob on the other end of the call. Suddenly, Harley’s excitement simmered, and his eyebrows narrowed at the lack of answer on Pepper's part._

_“Pep?” he asked, almost fearfully._

_“Harley, Baby…” Pepper finally replied, her voice hoarse and thick. “I’m so sorry…”_

_Harley's joy was slowly replaced by dread, as realization dawned on him. “Pep, no,” he said, softly, his lower lip barely quivering as he glued his eyes on the road, focusing his attention to _anywhere _but the call in his grip. “don’t say it, please—”_

_“He’s resting, Harley.” Said Pepper, slowly, softly. “He’s done his best, now he’s resting.”_

_His car swiveled to the side of the road, earning him angry honks around him. But he didn’t care._

_Harley could feel his throat closing on him, his chest growingly tight and constricting—_

“Harley!”

Harley took a sharp inhale, and suddenly he was back at the café again, with Hannah in front of him, holding an afraid Shihab, curling at her chest.

Harley was still heaving, still shaking, when Hannah reached his hand and grasped it, tightly. “you’re in the student café in NYU. You're with me and your son. You're alright. You’re okay.” Her voice was gentle yet persistent, slowly pulling Harley’s mind out of his haze.

Then there was another hand, smaller, this time, and Harley almost teared up—if he hadn’t already—at the sight of Shihab's tiny fingers grasping him. “You okay, Daddy,” he said, seriously, “no baddie, here.”

“Yeah.” Harley huffed, forcing air in and out of his lungs, lest to calm himself down before his son. “yeah, baby, no baddie here.” Thick, palpable silence withstood between them, as Harley gathered his bearings. Hannah told him with a softer voice that she would bring Shihab to the playground inside the café, and Harley didn’t even remember nodding to.

The conversation was effectively over, but Harley grasped Hannah’s hand tightly for the next fifteen minutes, and when she said that her break was over and she had another class she needed to attend, Harley walked back into his car, hugging Shihab tighter to his chest as he went.

* * *

_v. _

The fifth one was unexpected.

“What's your childhood hope that never gets fulfilled?”

Harley raised an eyebrow at Morgan, who was looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. “I thought this game is about asking the fun questions.”

Morgan hmph-ed. “It _is!” _she protested, fiddling with the pen she used to randomly choose between the two of them. “but we’ve been exchanging silly stories for about half a round of ‘em. What’s fun about playing 20 questions if you don't ask deep, soul-shaking ones?”

He rolled his eyes at her, who threw him an indignant look. “Hmm, let's see,” he said, tapping his chin experimentally. “Buying a Nerf gun.”

Morgan pointed an accusatory finger at him, wiggling it disapprovingly. “That’s a shitty lie and we both know it.” She said, “Besides, your self-made potato gun slaps better than those expensive, elitist bullshit.”

“If your mom hears the words you're saying right now, she'd be two dollars richer.” Harley joked, tapping his finger over Morgan's nose.

In return, she stuck out her tongue at him. “Mom gave me pass on curses that has 'shit' on it.” She said, rather triumphantly. “Said the word's _mine, _for some reason.” Morgan flipped her hair, letting the long strands hit the tent behind them. “anyway, I'm _serious, _come on, give me an honest answer!”

“Whoever said girls' sleepovers are light and breezy seriously has never have girl friends.” Harley scoffed, crossing his hands over his chest. “or sisters—or pseudo-sisters, for that matter.”

“Harold Keener, stop deflecting and start answering or I will dump you into the lake.”

“You’re smaller than me.”

“Size has never defined power—look at my dad; he was the tiniest hero in the universe and still managed to snap an ugly purple shit and his wrinkly army out of existence.” She remarked, rather casually. It took a while—still takes a while, in fact, but now there were days when Tony's name was mentioned and everyone in his immediate family would smile fondly, or laugh freely, without the burden of crying out of grief. “Now, _spill.”_

Harley sighed, and suddenly his nerves started to make themselves presentable, as he fiddled with his fingers idly. “I guess, it's…” he trailed off, looking at the small window of the tent, which displayed a fraction of the cabin's lake. He debated on whether or not should he continue for a while, two sides warring inside him as Morgan looked at him in curiosity. “It’s having a competent father.” He decided, finally, sighing.

Morgan narrowed her eyes. “You had dad.” She pointed out, quietly, with a little hint of jealousy that could only be detected under trained ears.

Frustrated, Harley ran a hand over his hair, letting his finger trail his scalp. “yeah, I know, and I'm grateful for his presence, but—” he paused, trying to find words that could convey his feelings properly. “He wasn't _my _dad, you know?”

Morgan tilted her head slightly, confusion still evident in her expression.

Harley sighed, fiddling with his fingers. “what I’m trying to say is… before Tony broke into my garage and practically adopted me and Hannah, we... we had a dad. Our _actual _dad. And, um, he left.” He said, voice rather quiet. “You know, kind of played ding-dong ditch one day and deserted us.” Sighing, he drawled his breath shakily, recalling the phonecall from Vanessa, “and then like, couple of weeks ago, I found out that he had like, this, um, new family all the way in Jersey, and, um, also suffering from an, um, terminal illness, and is counting his days.” He shrugged, trying to keep it nonchalant, “so, you know, it makes me… wonder.”

It took a while for Harley to look up again, but when he did, he found Morgan looking at him sympathetically—her hands over his, gently rubbing it. “I’m sorry,” She said, genuinely, with a trace of guilt coloring her tone. “We can… not talk about him. If it makes you uncomfortable.”

Harley gave Morgan a tight smile, but was grateful at her diversion. His entire week had been spent on pondering the past with his dad, and the possible future without him—let him at least have this silly little sleepover free from the thought of Eric Keener.

“Alright, my turn.” Said Morgan, giving him a come-hither with her hands. “Come on, Keener, ask me anything.”

Harley opened his mouth, about to ask her about the first kiss he _knew _she was hiding from everyone, when a loud, authoritative voice cut him off.

**“May I inform you, Baby Boss, that you’re currently awake well past your curfew.” **

“Aw, _FRIDAY!” _Morgan groaned, looking at the ceilings of the tent. “We were only starting the game!”

**“And now you’re ending it.”** Replied FRIDAY with a no-nonsense tone. **“Now off to bed, you go, or you’ll find your mom very displeased when she gets back from her trip.”**

Morgan grumbled, muttering something about FRIDAY _always _being a stuck-up snitch under her breath, while Harley laughed at the exchange. “She has a point, you know.” Said Harley, as he pulled her up from her seat and lead her out from the tent. “Tomorrow’s a school day—you should get some sleep.”

“You all are ganging up on me,” She pouted, giving him faux annoyance, as they entered the lakehouse. “I shall mark this as the worst betrayal I have ever encountered for the rest of my life!”

Harley shook his head, pushing her forward to the stairs, straight up to where her bedroom was placed. “Okay, Drama Queen.” He said, in between his chuckles. He accompanied her until the front of her bedroom, opening her door for her. “G’night, Mo.” He said, softly, extending his hand.

Morgan looked up at him, intently, before slamming herself to his body—hugging him tight. “G’night, Harley.” She said, voice muffled by the fabric of his clothes. “three-thousand.” She reluctantly pulled off, gazing at him with wide eyes, and Harley’s heavy heart was now slightly relieved, filled by his adoration for the girl he’d considered his own sister.

They use the number, now, instead of outwardly saying the three words. It was their little love language, one that was meant for the Iron Family only.

At her wake, Harley stood for a couple of minutes, just staring at her closed door. Now that he was alone, the thoughts returned, punching him in ways of pain he was _acutely _familiar with.

_“Where are you going, Dad?”_

He closed his eyes, screwing it shut.

_“Maybe I wasn’t asking to be saved, ever think about that?!”_

“No,” He told himself, “don’t think about him, don’t—”

“_it’s stage four colon cancer. Doctor said he only had two months, tops.”_

“FRIDAY, can you prepare my Mark XVII design at the workshop, please?” said Harley, perhaps louder than necessary. “I need to… tinker with it.”

**“Very well; preparing the design for Mark XVII.”** Said FRIDAY, not unkindly. **“The blueprint and the model will be waiting for you when you get there.” **

Harley gave the ceiling a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Honey.” He told her, genuinely, before walking out of the cabin, out to the woods and into the separate workshop The Starks kept, even after their sole engineer had been long gone. Harley and Peter still stored their blueprints there, and often preferred to work suit prototypes in the old lair rather than their own at their respective homes.

Something about the place… made them feel closer to Tony—like somehow, he was guiding them as they tinker their masterpieces.

The lab was blasted by something from Maroon 5, by the time Harley went in, which was refreshing. Nothing like a set of no-brainer songs to keep him focused on the task he’d set himself. He was going around, switching through models—either his, Peter’s, Rhodey’s, even Riri’s, whose design was _so _unlike him—cherry-picking the good parts and inserting them to his armor. Peter had good, flexible arm design, perfect of agility, but Rhodey’s thrusters worked better, and Riri’s design had managed to bypass the heaviness of an average suit.

As the hour passed by, Harley grew even more restless; he jumped around, singing off-tune to the songs played—now Taylor Swift’s _We are Never Ever Getting Back Together, _which meant it was probably Morgan’s Spotify playlist—as he rummaged through the pile, searching for new materials, tools, even scraps from benched old suits and weapons.

He was messing around the cabinet, trying to reach Rhodey’s helmet and configure the coding and material, when he accidentally knocked over another dusty, old, long-unused helmet.

Tony’s.

Harley almost yelped, his chest constricting for a split second as he lowered himself too late to catch the clanging helmet. It bounced once to the floor, landing top-first, possibly denting it. “Oh shit.” Harley said, voice tight, “Oh, shit, oh, shit, Pep’s gonna _kill _me—”

She wouldn’t—but if it was broken, Harley would be pretty damn sure he himself would.

It was the last thing Tony had touched—the main storage for his messages for them all. No one dared to touch it, much less tinker with it. They always asked FRIDAY to virtually harness the data, let _her _access it, not them, because they wanted to preserve the leftover of _Tony, _there, and not contaminate it with their germy, ever-curious hands.

The only one who’d often touched it was Morgan, and as Harley lifted it, he felt guilty—what if the helmet sustained a serious damage? What if he broke Tony’s last messages, rendering them inaccessible? What if—?

**“the helmet is fine, Harley.”** Said FRIDAY, breaking out his reverie, as if reading his thoughts. **“it’s just a little chipped—no need to worry.”**

Harley swallowed, nervously, because even a _chip _was too much. He picked up the helmet, and the little chip FRIDAY had mentioned—couldn’t be bigger than one-eighth of his thumb. Gingerly, he looked at the design that was so identical with his model. “there’s a dent, right here,” he pointed to the corner of the house, where an obvious impact was evident.

**“that was just from Boss' time, not your doing, Harley.” **

_Oh._

He traced the dent with feather-light touches, feeling the rough iron to his fingertips. “He never was careful with his stuff, wasn't he?” he said, idly, as he observed the helmet with somber eyes.

Tony dented it. Tony _made _it. Tony left his mark on it.

**“No; even reckless was an understatement of how crazy boss was with his armors.” **

Harley chuckled, but it was wet and throaty and clogged, like someone trying to drown sorrows through forced laughter.

God, he _missed _Tony.

“FRIDAY,” Harley said, absent-mindedly. “Can you, like—play some of Tony's old messages? The ones that are—that are for me?”

**“sure thing, Harley. Which message do you want?” **

Harley kept his eyes to the helmet, staring straight to the empty eyeholes. He'd seen it all, back then, when Tony had just passed away; binging each one with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He'd memorized them down to word-per-word—he didn’t actually _need _FRIDAY to play it on.

But still.

“Surprise me.” He said, as he set down the helmet to a woodworking table, taking several steps away to take Tony's projection in its entirety.

When Tony materialized out of thin air, standing and smiling sarcastically, Harley almost wanted to cry.

“_Keener, my Potato Prodigy,” _he said, “_this is my last message for you, so pay attention.” _

“_you’re my oldest kid—not only in terms of age, though the age thing was kind of cheating, courtesy of our very own mad eggplant warmonger,” _Tony rolled his eyes, “_but also in terms of longetivity; connections, you say it—you have the longest relationship with me, and dare I say you even take part into shaping how I father Morgan; how I mentor Peter.”_

Harley laughed, dryly, as he eyed Tony's whole movement. One thing he noticed in these videos was that Tony was somewhat… resigned; accepting. Instead of being antsy and in-denial, Tony simply looked… somber and wistful.

Sometimes, Harley wondered if Tony had always _known_.

Tony then continued, breaking Harley off his reverie. _“and in our very long, very challenging relationship, I learn to know you very well.” _Tony sighed, smiling a little, “_and one trait I can’t help but notice about you—is that you let grudges hold you back.”_

Chuckling hollowly, Harley shook his head. Hearing that particular call-out was never easy, no matter how hard he heard Tony say it in the recordings.

_“You have so much anger, so much unresolved tension to yourself. And I know this because I did this—do this, a lot.” _Tony looked down, somewhat sheepishly, as if he was a child being caught red-handed of chipping a forbidden cookie.

But then he looked up, staring straight to Harley's eyes, and Harley was always, _always _caught of guard at this part; because suddenly it didn’t feel like a hologram, didn't feel old and rehashed and a mere one-way conversation. This felt like _Tony, _the one in his memories—calling him late night into the garage, giving him pep talks and life lessons while they tinkered through old suits and odd inventions. _“There’s a lot of regret in you, Harley; a lot of confusion, a lot of rage and resentment—kind of reminds me of **me,** to be really honest.” _Tony ran a hand through his hair. “_and I don’t want you to be **me,** not in this aspect, no.”_

Tony gave Harley a small smile; _sad _was the only description Harley could come up with, in regards of how Tony looked. _“carrying these things, Harley… it haunts you; pains you in the way you didn’t realize until it was too late. Hatred… corrupts. It eats the soul, chip it little by little until you're all-consumed by it.”_

Harley sighed—shuddering. Suddenly his chest felt heavier, like this reminder was a slap to his face, as he _remembered; _remembered the times hatred had consumed him, had directed his path in life.

He thought about Eric Keener, and wondered if that hatred was the source of his constant heartache lately.

_“I don’t want you to fall into that—don’t want you to dive into the hole I used to live in my worst moments.”_ Tony tilted his head to the side, looking at Harley softly.

And suddenly Harley _remembered, _with vivid clarity, what this video was _about._

“FRIDAY, you sneaky A.I.,” Harley muttered under his breath. Because if anyone had a _hint _of what Harley was going through, it was FRIDAY and her ever-growing storage regarding the updates of one New Jersey young adult.

Tony's movement halted, suddenly—_paused, _he realized. It was an odd look; Tony, frozen mid-gesture, mid-speech. Looking at it made Harley's heart strangely ache.

**“Do you want me to stop the recordings, Harley?”** offered FRIDAY, not unkindly, and Harley blinked, taking off his eyes from the footage and to ceiling, sighing.

Did he want to hear the next part? Was he ready for that? He already memorized the words, verbatim, he didn't _need _to.

But there was something about it; something about _Tony _being the one who _said _it—in flesh or not—rather than _Harley_ merely _recalling _it.

He realized that, despite everything—he _wanted _to.

“No, FRIDAY.” Said Harley, quietly. “Continue.”

**“Very well, Harley.”**

When Tony moved again, a knot in his stomach was loosened—untied by relief. He blinked, as Tony shifted his stance, hands shoved into his jeans pockets.

_“What I'm trying to say in this video, Harley… is that so often you let yourself be anchored in the past. I wish you would let go—of the anger, the grudge, of everything.”_

_Eric _was the first thing coming to Harley's mind—weighing his chest like an unshakable lead. Harley took a deep breath, contemplating.

_Should he? _

_“Now don’t take me wrong; letting go **never **meant giving people forgiveness where it wasn't due. It could be just... Moving on. Addressing the issue and then be done with it.”_ Tony ran a hand through his hair, “_Because running from it, God; it will never stop. It will chase you, and I don't want you exhausted. I don’t want you _afraid.”

Harley thought about it; about what he wanted to say, what he wanted to ask, but never got around to—never given the chance to.

_Why leave?_

_Why abuse me all those years ago?_

_Why can you change for them, but not for me? _

The question dangled, at the tip of his tongue, demanding more than contemplations; what it demanded, Harley realized—was an answer. An explanation.

An _apology._

_“I want you to have a lighter chest, have nothing holding you back from the past. I want you—happy. Truly, genuinely happy.”_ Tony continued, his smile genuine and honest, and Harley couldn't believe how much an old recording could make him feel. _“because you’re my first child, Harley; before anyone else, you are the first kid that truly mattered—and I care about you, I always do.” _

“You're my dad, too, Tony,” said Harley, words tumbling out of his mouth before he could even think about it, because it was _true; _this was him, saying what he wished he had said to Tony, _back then_. “in ways that mattered, you're my _dad, _you old tin can man.”

Because Eric Keener might have been part of his genetic mark-up, but Anthony Stark _made _him; shaped him to be who he was—taught him to have what it takes to be _Harley Keener._

Tony chuckled, then, looking at his side. _“Seems like a lifetime ago when I dragged my malfunctioning suit to your garage, huh? Time flies so fast—now you’re in college and building your umpteenth mark of Potato Gun. Possibly older, with a family of your own, when you see this.” _He wheezed, then, and Harley's smile was slightly brightened as well, because he _knew _the next part. Remembered it from memory. _“God, I keep on imagining you with white hair—it’s hilarious, I swear. Slightly unsettling, but hilarious.”_

Harley steeled himself for the next part, then, as Tony looked back to the front—to _him. _His smile grew somber, like the one he wore initially. _“I’m sorry I can’t be there for you, to give these advices in person. I’m sorry I can’t see you grow, see Hannah grow—I’m sorry for making you lose another father figure.” _

And Harley choked on his emotions, because even after all these _years, _the pain never really disappear; he merely had gotten used to it—to living with a Tony-shaped wound in his chest.

Tony's face turned serious, meaningful, then—as he continued. _“But know this; no matter dead or alive, hologram or flesh, I always, **always **love you—”_

“3000.” Harley chimed, absent-mindedly, matching Tony's tone and timing. He watched as Tony faded, then, to blurred line then nothingness, a mere vacancy in the air, and shuddered.

He looked down at his feet, thinking.

“FRIDAY?”

**“Yes, Harley?”**

“Please call Vanessa Keener.”

* * *

_vi. _

The sixth one was the final requiem.

“Last chance, Iron Lad.” Said RiRi, as Harley gripped her hand. “If you bail, that's alright.”

Harley sighed, staring at the white door in front of him. “I really want to.” He said, quietly.

RiRi smiled understandingly, “if you think that’s the best for you—if you think it'll give you closure, then.” She stopped, letting her sentence hanging.

For a second, Harley _really _contemplated it; should he quit it now? Should he just call it a day and fly back to New York?

He looked at RiRi, who took off her day from work when Harley asked her to. Harley didn’t bring Zaheer, or Shihab, or Hannah, because he felt like _he _didn’t deserve to see that; didn't deserve to see the family Harley had built himself, no thanks to him.

But he needed moral support, and RiRi—kind eyed, _anchoring _RiRi, his best _friend—_had delivered.

Harley steeled himself.

“We've come this far, right?” He said, giving her a small smile.

RiRi merely squeezed his hand tighter. “On your mark, Potato Head.” She said, lightly.

Harley nodded, knocking the door; once, twice. There was a pause, and a rustle. And then he heard a faint, _“I didn’t know we were expecting guests today.”_

Harley _knew _that voice anywhere; older, wearier, thinner, but still the same one from the nightmares of his _childhood. _

Gulping, Harley wanted to _run_. But—

_“running from it, God; it will never stop. It will chase you, and I don't want you exhausted. I don’t want you _afraid.”

He straightened himself as the door opened, showing a very surprised young woman, looking at him with wide eyes. “I really thought that you wouldn't show up.” She said, genuinely.

“Yeah, well,” replied Harley, “I'm not _him.” _

And she pressed her lips for that, looking at him with something undecipherable in her eyes, but she opened the door wider. Harley went in, followed by RiRi, smelling the odor of antiseptic and Dettol as he did so.

There was a man on the bed; older, thinner, wearier, and _mortal_. He looked at Harley with initial confusion, before recognition dawned over him, and his whole expression turned into a mix of longing, and fear, and _regret._

“Harley,” he rasped, leaning closer.

Harley offered him a cold smile, the free hand in his pocket gripping the chip of Tony’s helmet, quietly asking for _strength._

“_you are the first kid that truly mattered.”_

Whatever that came out of this, Harley was sure of one thing; he _had _a dad—one that crashed landed into his garage when he was 10, and loved him since then.

Whatever the man in front of him will say, he wouldn’t be able to take away that _fact._

Harley took a deep breath, preparing himself.

“Hello, Eric.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twt it's @surabayuh


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